


Concrete Walls

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Oneshot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, early season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: “Sharing intimacy with an inmate presents a sort of sacrilege, doesn't it?”





	Concrete Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Awhile ago, I became inspired by Joan's dialogue in season five, episode two. It's also fun to integrate canon dialogue. Enjoy!

A haunted mouse creeps about Wentworth's forlorn halls. The women fall into the fitful bouts of sleep. Vera grants Miles some clemency and schedules herself for a double. Now, Linda Miles can gamble until her heart's content without the much needed overtime. Everything has a price.

Governor Vera Bennett finds herself searching for simpler times. Nothing comes easy. People are complex. You would think she'd learn that by now. Yet, here she is, standing outside of Joan Ferguson's closed cell.

In the late hours of the night, she enters the wolf's den. Her fingers curve while reaching for the door handle. This isn't Bluebeard's bloody chamber and she's not living in some twisted fairy tale. Once inside, her heels don't make a sound.

While studying the remarkably tidy cell, Vera lifts her chin. Her nostrils flare, but she doesn't sniffle. It takes several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the room. The gaudy curtains weren't by Ferguson's choice. She chooses to leave them in place since they allow for some semblance of privacy. Those teal, brick walls clamor with the sweat and tears of a thousand different lives that have entered and left this establishment: dead or alive.

Joan bookmarks Machiavelli.

 _The Prince_ can wait.

The used copy now rests on the nightstand next to her bed – **the** bed – it does not belong to her; this is not home.

“I knew you would come scurrying in.”

Joan exudes confidence, brandishing an amused, little smirk. Vera swears that she sees her own reflection cast in that cold, granite stare. Still, she attempts to stand tall, her arms gone slack by her sides. Vera clenches her jaw, steeling herself in front of the woman who taught her _how_.

“--Now, Vera. It's rude to stare. What plagues you besides your conscience?”

The standing Governor grimaces.

Somehow, she finds her voice.

“Bea Smith deserves atonement.”

Joan hums, her eyes wandering down Vera's legs. The pants are a nice touch.

“You're not here for Smith. Let's face the facts, shall we? You are driven by selfish desire,” she quips and hits the nail on the head.

Ferguson stands up. She adjusts the sheet so that it returns to its crisp, military fold. The sheets will be ruined. Give it time.

At the remark, Vera looks indignant.

The anger is delicious: a fuel for the well-oiled machine that inches closer. Without heels, without the white uniform sneakers, Joan remains significantly taller than Vera. She towers over the petite woman who has to look up to meet the challenge that presents itself.

“I won't stand for whatever it is that you think you're doing, Joan.”

Joan stares at her, dark eyes glittering and unreadable.

"Vera, you've always been transparent."

To Vera Bennett, Joan Ferguson is not a ghost. She is a woman who has hardened herself to match the prison bars that keep the birds in; she jails herself and this is where Joan would remind Vera that her humanity saves her.

She leans forward, analyzing her prey. Face to face, Joan's long fingers inch down Vera's jawline, motioning towards her lips. Mesmerized by Joan's mouth, she gawks. Admires. Lingers.

“You want it?”

God, she ought to say no.

But she wants it.

She wants it too fucking much.

And she hates herself for saying “yes.”

Hate turns into want turns into need.

A wolf and a lamb lay together. It's difficult to say who dines on who.

Lips meet with a fervor. It's not a cinematic kiss; it's an insatiable one full of unresolved tension and internal conflict. Vera's lips are chapped, perhaps windburnt from the hurricane that is Joan Ferguson.

When her back hits the prison mattress, she braces for impact. With a dull groan, Vera looks up at her maker, disheveled. The tight knot that drills into the back of her skull begins to loosen. A few strands of hair here and there.

Their tongues touch, warm and wet.

Now Vera knows what perdition tastes like.

Thoughts of Jake are pushed to the far recesses of her mind. Vera claws and scratches at Joan's back, struggling to pull up the uniform. The teal sweatsuit doesn't swallow Joan whole as it has with countless other women. Joan doesn't let her continue. The brace holds her in place so that she's forced to take a peak at the third degree burns that glare red. She wishes that she could apply salve to the scars. Vera wishes for a lot of things.

“Is this what you wanted, Joan? To have control? To dominate?”

Vera challenges, her hands twisting the sheets, maiming that perfect order.

Her mouth is open, lips slightly parted. It's a ruined song between lovers lost.

Joan looks all too satisfied hovering over her.

She aims to dismantle her former pseudo-progeny piece by piece. Each kiss represents a parle, each caress a cunning stroke to cut Vera Bennett down. Voice hoarse, Joan whispers into the shell of her ear.

“You have no idea how evil I can be.”

Why not live up to the image that people fancy her to be?

It's not what Joan wanted, but it's a starring role.

Anger almost always compensates for inexperience.

The column of that chorded neck appears all too appetizing. Pupils dilated, Vera bites Joan. Catches her skin in between her teeth. Come tomorrow, no one will pay any mind to the bruises. Joan's thigh slips between her petite legs, she gasps from shock. From outrage. From something more.

This leads to a phantom touch. The v of her hand coasts along Vera's throat that bobs deliciously. She envisions a windpipe crushed between her teeth: cat ensnaring mouse forevermore.

She could have squeezed. Could have applied pressure. Could have watched the light leave Vera's blue eyes. She didn't.

One by one, Joan undoes her buttons. Her tie is loosened. Off it comes, along with the bra that lays lifelessly on the floor. Pearly, white teeth sink into Vera's shoulder. Ravenous. Hungry. She doesn't scream. She gasps wantonly. In a mocking gesture, Joan slides the jacket back onto Vera's slender build. The blazer hides her defined arms, the lapels scratching her chest.

“Leave the crowns on, Vera.”

_They belong to me just as you do._

Joan's hands push Vera's breasts up. Then, down. 

Despite herself, she grabs for Joan's hips, drawing her closer. Her nipples scratch against the wool of her blazer. It's painfully arousing. Unfastening Vera's trousers and slipping a hand in beneath her drawers; skillful fingers find their way inside reminiscent of how Joan's manifested herself in Vera.

Vera finds that Joan is anything but frigid. She's warm – flesh and bone – a body much like her own.

“Stop talking,” Vera snaps.

To her disbelief, Joan chuckles. It drips like honey and she melts at the divine sound. In retaliation, she reacts through touch, grabbing a tight ass. Vera squeezes. Joan thrusts her fingers in. It's the dance of scorned, jilted lovers where they work in a frenzy instead of a sacred union.

When Vera holds on tighter, sinking the tips of her blunt nails into her ass, Joan grunts.

“Sharing intimacy with an inmate presents a sort of _sacrilege_ , doesn't it?”

Her lips ghost the hollow of Vera's throat, her chin settling on the golden, embroidered crowns.

"Fuck you."

"No, Vera. I am the one doing the _fucking_ here."

A crude emphasis is placed on the salacious. Joan adds another finger: a third for good measure, fucking and stretching the spluttering mess that Vera becomes. Her clit's throbbing with need. Joan doesn't touch her there. Not yet when she needs her most.

This insidiousness claws at her belly, matching the way that Joan's good fingers curl inside, knuckles deep.

They switch positions. Vera is no longer the Vera she used to be. She climbs. Straddles Joan's waist and looks into eyes so dark that she may as well drown in their complicated depths.

This time, they don't break eye contact.

There's no denying how wet Vera is.

Her abdomen contracts, making up for this passionate tango. 

When she retracts her touch, she smells Vera on her sopping wet fingertips. Relishes the scent, but she doesn't drink it in – only Vera's tortured expression when Joan stops fucking her, albeit temporarily.

“I can smell you, Vera.”

Joan hisses when she speaks. This affects her in some fashion: the way she watches is completely and utterly voyeuristic. Her breathing becomes ragged. She hides this moment of deplorable weakness with a fiery kiss that's full of clashing teeth, wagging tongue, and swollen lips.

She plays Vera for the violin that she is, stroking her cunt as a hedonistic musician would caress the chords. In an ardor, Vera pumps her hips, bouncing up and down in Joan's lap. She's all pants and the vapid cries of "oh, oh, _oh_."

"Harder," she says and tries to make it sound like a demand when, really, it's a strangled rush of air.

Joan obliges, utilizing the force that's embedded in her forearm. Ignoring the soreness of her muscles and the clenching of her stomach, she twists her wrist.

“Let me touch you,” she pleads.

“Hm...” Joan seems to think about it for a second, her eyes a primal abyss that Vera splutters and drowns in. “-- _No_.”

Vera doesn't listen.

Vera doesn't obey.

And it taps into some part of Joan that she stubbornly tries to seal away, deep underground.

Vera wraps her toned arms around Joan, ensnaring her in a sordid lover's embrace. Her hips form a frantic pace, snapping to match the fury of those fingers that fuck away high tension. She holds Joan close.

Closer than Jianna.

It's _too_ close.

Their chests touch though it's a restricted sensation thanks to the fabric that binds them. Their bodies are a mash up of sweat and heat. A weary lioness rests her forehead against the prey she's ensnared. Though pale and clammy, she still manages to look less flushed than her pupil. Neither the ponytail nor teal has been rendered a mess.

"Let go," Joan sings, oozing innuendo. 

Vera chews on her lip, her eyes wide and shiny with the promise of tears. She wants more. She wants it all. The hate, the tenderness, the friendship, the love, the ruin.

She wants Joan to touch her so thoroughly that she doesn't forget.

Finally, it seems that Joan obliges. She brushes her thumb along her swollen clit. Applies a little pressure. Then, some more. That musical note promises the crescendo of a lifetime. Mercilessly, she rubs in teasing circles.

The sound of coming undone rivals a gasp. A scream that bangs against her throat, but dies down into a _whimper_.

When she comes, she screams into Joan's shoulder, hiding her face and her heartbreak. Her thighs clench. Her body spasms. Her pussy throbs. Sated, she collapses against Joan and Joan's left holding a straw house, wondering what she's done.

It feels like breaking down.

 

 


End file.
